Slumber, My Darling
by vintagepearl
Summary: The world almost ended, and James T. Kirk just wants to sleep. Spock & Kirk, Friendship Only. Language, because Kirk is an Iowa Farm Boy with a dirty mouth.
1. Sleep

His head hurt. It ached, throbbing with every breath. Fuck, it hurt. He exhaled, and lay back in his temporary quarters, quest quarters for visiting dignitaries. Not the Captain's quarters, even though he was the acting captain. He'd just found an empty chamber and staggered in.

"Computer, lights," he rasped, his throat aching from being choked to the edge of death thrice over that day.

The room became dim, but still, his head hurt.

He closed his eyes. Surely, that would help the headache. Images swarmed him. His heart clenched, then sped up, and he started to sweat.

Bursting forth into the Vulcan atmosphere to be met with the sight…. Everyone was dead. People died, sure, but not everyone, all at once like that, floating pieces of once beautiful ships heading towards them in a fucking metaphor of grief and what it could do to you.

Jim Kirk didn't do poetry, but fuck if it wasn't tragically poetic.

Gaila was dead. "I love you," she'd told him. He'd been stunned, then shoved under her bed hurriedly. He hadn't seen her since then, and now she was gone, gone like his father, sucked into… Well. Into nothingness.

His heart clenched again and he grit his teeth, groaning aloud.

"Fuck me," he groaned breathlessly, unaccustomed to being owned by these feelings. He couldn't get it out of his head. The floating pieces of wreckage. The implosion of Vulcan. The grief of the older man who had touched his mind.

"I have been, and always shall be, your friend." He'd said that. Who said shit like that, huh? What was it, a fucking cheeseball movie, like the kind that used to come on Saturday afternoons back in Iowa?

Fuck him, indeed. Iowa. Fuck. His mother, he hadn't called her.

It was too much, all of it, threatening to overwhelm him. He gasped. What the hell was this? A panic attack? Hysteria? Captain of a fucking starship for ten goddamn minutes, was he breaking already?

There was a chirp at his door. Someone found him? What the fuck.

He stumbled out of bed. Stumbled sideways, lulling like he was on a boat on the lake where his grandparents had owned a cabin. He groaned, swallowed the bile – painfully, his throat… Ugh. He straightened, and inhaled, straightening himself.

"Yeah. Enter."

The light spilled in from the hall and he recognized that silhouette.

"Spock," he rasped. "Something wrong?" Instantly, Kirk's muscles were tense. His heart was pounding. His knees were shaking from… from what, exhaustion, fear, pain, adrenaline?

Spock watched him, his cool eyes adjusting to the dark. "Captain," he said softly. "Dr. McCoy is looking for you. It would seem you have not been examined."

"Ahh. Ah," he laughed a little, rubbing his hand over his bare stomach, leaning slightly against the desk. "Ah, Bones. Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just gonna… I'm gonna…" He couldn't breathe. This was fucked up, he was James T. Kirk, everything was fine. He closed his eyes, his knees buckling as he began to slide to the ground.

Spock didn't hesitate, merely reached out, catching him, holding him easily at arm's length. "Captain," he frowned, as Jim's head lolled, and he looked up, his breathing irregular and heavy.

"I just uh… I just need to uh… I… "

"I will call for the doctor." It was only logical, of course.

"N- no, no, just… I… Uh…" He closed his eyes, his forehead coming to rest against Spock's chest.

Spock didn't move, merely stood perfectly still, his fingers clenched gently around the captain's arms.

"You need to sleep," Spock said finally, when he could no longer hear the pounding of the other man's heart. He was silent, easing Kirk – his captain, for crying out loud, how that had happened, well, it was, suffice to say, illogical and ridiculous, but a seeming fact – back into the bed.

Kirk exhaled, shuddering, his eyes sliding shut. "Don't tell Bones, k?" He mumbled.

Spock felt… was that the hint of tenderness? He mentally shook that feeling off, attributing it to the day's rather… unsettling events.

"Sleep well, Captain." He turned on his heel, and strode out.


	2. Ease

He just wanted to sleep.

Sleeping on the Enterprise, on the way back, had been fitful, at best.

Nightmares, night terrors, tossing, turning, tangled in his sheets, he'd woken up gasping for air, choking on the grief, on the goddamned injustice of it all. Seeing in his dreams his dead father, his alter-ego, his best friend, his classmates, Vulcan, everything, nothing, anything, all of it – understanding none of it. It was not as it should be, but it was how it was.

He couldn't sleep.

They'd arrived back at the Academy, after putting his beloved ship down in dry dock back in motherfucking IOWA, and hopping a shuttle back to San Francisco.

Iowa. Goddamnit. He hadn't called his mother, and he hadn't slept, and he hadn't breathed in an eternity, and it all hurt so much, and then, then, he would look at Spock and remember the ice and the fingers on his face and the grief, and the panic would return and he would close his eyes and pray for it to end.

There were shoulder claps and handshakes and medals to be awarded.

But James Tiberius Kirk just wanted to sleep.

He walked alone, hazily, through the dormitory.

He'd been offered officer's quarters, and an elbow in the side from Bones told him to accept, so he did.

He packed his shit, not that he gave a goddamn about any of it, except maybe his favorite leather jacket and maybe a picture of his father, but only just maybe. He shouldered the bag, still doing his goddamned best to ignore the pain he felt in his body.

Bones wanted to give him something for it – of course he did – but what the fuck, Kirk was going to suffer, he was going to hurt, because the physical expression of it all felt like payment for the sins of not figuring out what was happening SOONER.

If he had figured it out sooner, maybe the rest of the fucking Academy wouldn't be floating in space like not so much space dust. His chest felt tight. Again. He mentally berated himself as he walked. He'd lost nothing, nothing compared to McCoy, who'd lost a mentor, or the cadets who'd lost roommates and best friends and sisters , or the hundreds of thousands of people on earth who'd lost a loved one, or fuck him, Spock who'd lost his whole planet.

Either Spock. The old man who had looked at him with such delight and love, then shown him such grief and angst he'd been staggered by it. Or hell, he still hadn't apologized for what he'd done to his Spock on the bridge that day. It'd been necessary, but… He'd hurt the other man.

He touched his throat as he walked.

For the first time in his life, Kirk felt selfish. All he could seem to process was how HE felt, and how fucking selfish was THAT?

He hated himself.

That was going around his head a lot, lately.

He looked up when he arrived at his quarters, and froze, when he realized he was next to Spock's quarters.

Seriously? Someone in the universe was making him do penance. He groaned softly, resting his head against the still shut door. He had never felt this way – never been forced down by so many feelings. He longed for Spock – for that wise old man who would be able to tell him what the FUCK he was supposed to do, who had believed in him, and known him and…

He sighed and let himself into his new quarters. Kirk was good at sucking it up. He didn't feel or muse or ponder. He reacted. He reacted, driving a car off a cliff, 'cause he could; he reacted, throwing punches and tossing insults, 'cause he could, 'cause the risk felt good. He stripped out of his simple black t-shirt, and poured himself an ample glass of scotch. He'd drink until he couldn't remember, and he'd hurt until it made up for what he'd failed at.

He hurt.

And it wasn't enough.

He drank until he got sick, throwing up. Very un-Jim Kirk. Nothing felt right anymore. He needed… He… He needed…

He got up, swishing his mouth out, ignoring his reflection in the mirror. The bruises had fully bloomed, ringing his neck, mottling his face. He tugged on a shirt and stumbled next door to where the Vulcan lived.

Fuck ringing the bell.

He banged on the door, "SPOCK!" he shouted, swaying sideways against the door. "SPOCK! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!"

There were silent footsteps he could not hear and the door opened, sending one Captain James Tiberius Kirk sprawling on his face in the lush carpet next to Spock's feet.

Spock blinked. "Captain? Jim?" He squatted, to take the man's pulse.

Kirk lifted himself, his eyes bleary, his lip bleeding anew. "Spock," he said desperately, reaching out to touch his chest. Warm, hot even. "I'm so sorry, I know what you feel and I'm so sorry, sorry I wasn't faster, sorry I had to… I'm *sorry*," he rasped, coughing, and feeling sick, and bleeding on Spock's carpet.

Spock regarded him, arching an eyebrow, before hauling him to his feet.

"You know what I feel, Jim?"

"He showed me, he put his fingers…" Jim lifted a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to the smooth skin. His breath smelled of scotch and vomit and he was heavy against Spock's supporting touch. "He showed me and I felt it and now, I… I can't sleep." The statement ended on a whimper and Kirk hated himself all the more.

Spock nodded slowly. "The Elder Spock entered your mind?" He asked softly, sliding an arm around the Captain's waist, to support him, before lifting his other hand.

Jim's breath caught in his threat, expecting it, and he recoiled slightly, but Spock merely brushed Jim's hair off his forehead, watching him with deep, impenetrable brown eyes. "Yeah and it was… I'm so sorry," he babbled. "I felt it, I felt what you feel, I'm so sorry," he let his head loll forward, finding Spock's chest, as he had a few nights ago. It felt right, it felt okay.

Nothing felt okay anymore.

Spock was quiet, running through logical routes in his head. The health of his captain was clearly at risk. As if in response to this thought, Jim moaned, and retched, though nothing came up.

"You must rest," Spock said softly. "You are to be commissioned tomorrow. You are to relieve Admiral Pike."

"I know," he murmured, slowly bringing his aching, trembling hands to rest on the slender waist of the man who supported his weight.

It was official, some part of Kirk's brain thought: He was losing his goddamned mind. This was not… SPOCK was the one he'd come to comfort. To apologize to.

"S'hot in here," he mumbled, sweat sliding down his back, between his shoulder blades, down further still.

Spock merely nodded, "I presume you do not desire me to call Dr. McCoy to aid your need for rest?"

"Fuck you, Spock, I'm fine, I came to apologize, to make you feel better, to comfort you, so just… yeah, fuck you, he… He said you feel, he said you feel so deeply and then I saw it and I knew, but he was… it was so…" Jim was babbling.

Spock had to suppress a sigh. He was tired and Jim was… Well, human. And illogical. And exhausted. And clearly… something.

He picked his captain up, maneuvering him into the bedroom with ease, laying him out on the perfectly made double bed. "You must rest, Jim." He kept his voice soft. He hoped it was gentle, humans saw and heard nuance in nothing – Nyota had taught him that.

"He showed me things, their lives, the other university. Spock, I…" Kirk closed his eyes, his stomach turning, as he choked back bile, gagged, and then groaned.

"You must rest, Jim." Spock gently put his hand on the Captain's arm. Physical contact comforted humans.

Jim shifted, uncomfortably though. "I knew my father in his universe, he was proud of me, he saw me become Captain, I wasn't a fucked up playboy bastard, Spock."

He had to admit that he had reached the end of his rope, as Dr. McCoy might say. He had no experience with humans who would not sleep. Nyota loved to cuddle into her pillow and go to sleep. What was he supposed to do to calm the man down?

"Close your eyes, Jim," he said softly, resting his fingers on Kirk's face – hot, damp, feverish, pale.

Jim complied and groaned at the relief of Spock sliding gracefully into his mind, a cool, calming presence that seemed to push everything else out. The clarity, the peace was overwhelming as it freed him from the turbulence and tumult that rocked him to his core.

"You must sleep, Jim," Spock said softly, aloud, his eyes closed as he focused on giving his friend – yes, his friend, of course, his friend – this peace, this gift, this freedom that his father had spoken of.

"Sleep," he repeated gently.

Jim sighed, and shifted, easing against the pillows, still sweating in the warm rooms, but relaxing, finally relaxing. He sighed.

And slept.


	3. Hush

Notes: As some reviewers have mentioned, I have a love of the F-word. I know farm boys from Iowa, and they have a love of it too. So, if this offends you... Erm... Sorry? Steer clear?Spock & Kirk continue, being all cute and impossible. As requested, Dr. McCoy makes an assessing best friend appearance.

Hush

Spock sat, still, unmoving, in a chair, close enough to the bed to reach Jim, if he needed to.

The captain of the starship Enterprise slept. Mostly calm. Every so often he would stir, and begin to toss and turn, murmuring things in his sleep, too low for even Spock's sharp ears to catch.

Jim began to do so again, for the third time in the course of 7 hours and 32 minutes, Spock noted with a frown. The blond man groaned, and Spock wondered – not for the first time – if the pain of his injuries disturbed his rest. He sighed. Perhaps it would be prudent to call Dr. McCoy, regardless of Kirk's wishes.

Kirk groaned, his skin becoming damp. No. This would not do.

Spock leaned forward, a gentle hand on Kirk's wrist. "Hush, Jim," he said gently, recalling the words of his mother, from so very long ago, when he was having bad dreams. "Hush and sleep. You are safe."

Jim seemed to relax, and Spock did not know if it was the touch or the words. The scientific side of his mind said he should have first offered one, then the other, so as to be able to track the success rate of each method. The side of his mind that just desired peace for his captain told the scientific side of his mind to stuff it.

Spock sighed, closing his own eyes, leaning back in the chair. This was duty, merely duty, nothing more. The hero and golden man of Starfleet couldn't be allowed to blubber like an infant through his award ceremony.

Indeed. Duty.

Kirk jerked awake, exactly 17 minutes later. He raised bleary, beautiful blue eyes to Spock, inhaling raggedly.

Spock lifted an eyebrow.

Kirk blanched. "What the FUCK?"

Spock lifted his eyebrow higher. "I presume you do not recall the incidents of yesterday evening, Captain?"

"Uh…" Kirk was quiet, trying to puzzle that one out. His head hurt so much less, and he inhaled, taking a deep breath. "I came over… to… make sure you were okay."

The night rushed back to him, and he felt nauseous. Sprawled facedown in Spock's rug. Spock lifting him. Jim's eyes burning with tears. The hot fingers to his forehead, the cool relief of Spock's mind against his.

He wanted that feeling again. He burned for it. He flushed.

Spock stood, ready to steady him as he struggled out of bed. "I… Uh… I gotta go shower, Spock, I gotta go get ready for the thing, the ceremony, the… I gotta shave," he mumbled.

"Yes, sir. Do you require anything?"

Your mind against mine? What was it the elder Spock had said? Our minds, one and together?

He didn't say that, merely forced a grin. "Hell nah, Spock! Today is a good day. Medals to be got, Ships to be commanded. I'll see you down there."

Spock nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. "Certainly, Captain Kirk."

"Uh, yeah. Mr. Spock." He turned, bracing himself against the doorframe for just a moment as he walked out. Holy shit.

He stood in his shower, letting extremely hot water slide across his skin. It felt good, slowly working on the kinks and aches. He felt refreshed, or something like it, for the first time since before that face off with Spock in front of the whole academy.

He sighed, sliding his washcloth over his body, closing his eyes, washing the soap off. Today was a good day.

He stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel haphazardly around his waist, and sighed when the door chirped.

"Yeah, enter," he called, looking up to see Bones holding his newly pressed uniform. "Ahh, Bonesy. You're a genius."

Bones regarded him, "You look marginally less like death."

"Thanks, Bones." He took the uniform, avoiding his best friend's probing eyes. "I'll see you down there?"

Bones sighed heavily. "We'll talk later, Jim?" He asked softly, his fingers finding their way through his own thick hair.

"Yeah, sure, Bonesy."

Fighting the strong urge to roll his eyes, McCoy left, rapping the door with his knuckles on the way out.

Kirk sighed, and shook his head, pulling on his uniform.

Number one on the list of things he never wanted to do: Talk to Bones about where he had been the previous night before, how he was doing, or anything else. Period. Ever.

His door chirped and he dropped his head back in frustration, groaning. "Yeah, enter!"

Spock stepped in. "I thought perhaps I should walk with you to the ceremony."

"Listen, ah…" Fuck him. He'd really lost his shit the night before.

"Spock, I'm fine, okay? Fine, you know, just fine."

Spock merely arched an eyebrow. "I am here and we intend to go to the same location. I will wait for you."

Kirk realized he had a new number one on his list of things he never wanted to do: get a look of concern from Spock. Ever. Again.


End file.
